


Terrible

by Trobadora



Series: Miracle [1]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-01
Updated: 2010-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:38:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor can be very convincing when he wants to. – Set some time after <i>Last of the Time Lords</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terrible

"I can't help think you didn't quite believe me."

The voice comes out of the shadows of the Hub. Jack tenses, the adrenal release a fraction of a second quicker than his voice recognition. When his brain catches up, he takes a deep breath and turns around in the doorway.

"Doctor," he greets, keeping his voice carefully steady. He hadn't expected to see the Time Lord again this soon. Or maybe at all. That would have been just like him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

A shape emerges from the darkness, stepping forward, becoming clear. The Doctor looks just like the last time Jack saw him, less than three weeks ago - after the year that never was, after Jack gave up on a dream he'd chased for 140 years. After they'd said good-bye.

"Been thinking," the Doctor says, with deceptive lightness hinting at gravity underneath.

Nothing more is forthcoming. The Doctor merely looks at him, intently, steadily. His eyes are dark, heavy. Deep.

Jack sighs. "About?"

"You're wrong," the Doctor says, almost regretfully, "and I can't change that. Fixed points in space and time just shouldn't be. I was clear about that, wasn't I? Very clear. Seems to me I should have put just as much effort into telling you I'm truly not bothered. Not any more."

Jack closes his eyes. He's had a year to get used to being seen as _wrong_; the Master was every bit as insistent on that part, if not more so. And he's had nearly three weeks to wrap his mind around the Doctor's sudden casual claim that he _really didn't mind_.

"You said so. What you didn't say is why."

"Which is why you didn't believe me." The Doctor steps closer. Closer. "But look at you." His gaze travels across Jack's body in a way it never has before. Predatory.

"What -"

The Doctor raises a hand, quelling him. He's completely in Jack's space now. Jack blinks in confusion, and -

\- cool lips press against his, a tongue teases itself into his mouth - hands worm themselves under his coat - -

Jack blinks - once, twice; then he finally overcomes his stunned passivity and reaches for the Doctor, trying to pull him closer.

"No," says the Doctor and grips his wrists, pushing them down. Holding them for a second, for emphasis maybe, then letting go. "Hold still. Let me. You need to know."

All right, if that's how the Doctor wants it, that's what he'll have. He smirks. "You only had to say." He stretches lazily, deliberately, and relaxes his body, making it pliant under the Doctor's hands.

Jack's never been able to deny him, after all - not seriously, and certainly not with _this_ on offer.

And then the Doctor's body presses against him, lean and sinewy. Jack shudders, hisses with the sudden, intense flush of arousal.

"Wrong," the Doctor murmurs against his lips. "Wrong and beautiful."

Cool, efficient hands push his greatcoat off his shoulders, slip off his braces, pull his shirt out of his trousers. He barely notices. Those lips are doing wicked things to his neck, his throat. He groans helplessly.

When he sees the impish smile on the Doctor's face, he knows he's given him something he wanted.

Good. This is easy. He can do this. He abandons himself to sensation.

Before he knows it, his trousers are down around his ankles, his shirt is open, and the Doctor? The Doctor's only inches away, his hands playing over Jack's skin, mapping muscles and tendons, tasting and feeling, everywhere.

It's almost too much, this ruthless onslaught, all that Time Lord determination focused on him for once.

"Wrong." The Doctor bites his earlobe. "Terrible. By all the laws of nature, you shouldn't exist. But you do."

Jack swallows convulsively.

The Doctor's fingers pinch a nipple; his lips soothe it again. He licks a broad stripe up Jack's neck, trails bites and kisses along Jack's jaw. "Terrible," he breathes into Jack's ear, then withdraws a little. His eyes are intense, almost black. "Like a miracle is terrible."

A cool hand – almost too cool for comfort, but only _almost_ \- cups Jack's balls, rolling them between cool, clever fingers. "A miracle," he repeats.

Jack's spine arches; his hips cant forward reflexively, and he's aching, aching for more.

The Doctor is relentless. Jack's being ravished by a hurricane. He's certainly not objecting.

When the Doctor's hand finally closes around his cock, he nearly sobs.

The Doctor's eyes are on Jack with the most intense, penetrating stare he's ever been subjected to. Too much.

It only takes a few strokes.

Too soon it's over.

The Doctor leans forward, brushes his lips against Jack's ear. "Buy me a drink next time," he purrs, and Jack's breath catches.

Then he wipes his hand on Jack's shirt and steps back. Jack misses those hands, that mouth on him already.

There are small flecks of come on the Doctor's otherwise still immaculate suit, and for some reason Jack's heart clenches at the sight.

Another intense look, then a small, secret smile. "Trust me, Jack. I _really_ don't mind."

The Doctor retreats into the shadows as he came: silently, unseen, unnoticed even by Torchwood's considerable security measures.

And Jack, half undressed, dishevelled and spent, leans back against the wall. There's only cool air against his hypersensitised skin now, but if he concentrates, he can still feel those fingers, those lips, that tongue.

He closes his eyes and thinks about the future.

Smiling.


End file.
